


if i asked, would you stay?

by Raineee



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Sawada Tsunayoshi, F/M, Fem Sawada Tsunayoshi, Female Sawada Tsunayoshi, R27 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raineee/pseuds/Raineee
Summary: Meeting your soulmate is a blessing, they say, but if your soulmate leaves you every single lifetime, that is agony. To remember your soulmate is a privilege, but can you really call it a blessing if your last memory is of his retreating back? Sawada Takara is just a girl, but when she dreams, it's of her past lives, always intertwined with heartbreak.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can check out my website where I post outtakes and other works on: effervescentlight.wordpress.com. Please do tell me what you think in the comments!

When Takara is seven, the scrapes on her knees are the badges of victory from the playground that she wears proudly, and she is too young, still too bright-eyed to fathom the cruelty of children. She dreams of stars like pinpricks of hope in the sky, of whispered vows, of a girl so vibrant, her every step brought flowers blooming beneath her feet, of a boy with sharp eyes and whose every step brought on war and bloodshed, of how as she walked on the dew-slick loam, her steps rang with the surety of only those blessed by Persephone Herself could,  and how the boy whose every steps the shadows faithfully chased, was believed to be blessed by the ruler of the Underworld, and how they would forever stand at opposing sides, eternally warring.

 

Her hair is of the damned pomegranate which entraps the vibrant Persephone, and his eyes are the gaping chasm of land beyond the living, the land of which they whisper he rules.

 

But those are but the stories that mothers tell their children, warning them to beware of the monsters shrouded in death.

 

The truth is something much simpler.

 

When Takara is seven, the wind tangling the flowers in her hair with playful fingers, she knows that Persephone had never been such a foolish girl, and as she splits the fruit, it stains her fingers like how his touch left her forever electric. She swallows the six seeds, burnished red like the roses at feet, and smiles. Ichor, the divinity that runs in her veins, sing when he smiles back.

 

When she wakes, it’s with the weight of a babe, warm, beautiful, and perfect, with his abyssal eyes and her flaming hair in her arms, but his scornful eyes as he walks away is the only thing Takara can remember.

 

 

Then, Takara is ten, and she dreams of quiet afternoons under a rustling willow, the promise of forever, a smile made of warmth and eyes like the abyss she steps fearlessly into, knowing that he will always catch her if she falls. When she wakes, she finds that she has been crying in her sleep, Mama smoothing the hair from her brow like she was still seven, with blood staining the soft youthfulness of her skin. Takara knows now, that dreams that are made of gold but shattered as easily as glass, and they hurt the most when only she bled from their jagged shards. She knows now that promises, no matter how sacred, could be easily muddied, of broken promises, and when she hears Mama’s tired cries, her heart singing a mourning tale of pain, aching for Papa, she wonders if the bone-deep ache in her chest is what Mama felt when Papa walked away.

 

She thinks that dreams are fickle things and that nothing is worth the heartbreak that he brings.

 

   
Takara is eleven, and she dreams of an emperor, with a tongue like razors but with a smile like warmth, and a gilded cage, a princess without her crown, a queen without a kingdom, her legacy that he had muddied with blood. He promises, forever, but around them, her people burn and cry for their empress to ascend the throne. Takara awakens to the shadowed curve of his face, war in his eyes and a cry on her lips. She thinks, her soulmate wanted nothing of her, and maybe, she might just be fine with that.

 

Years later, she has sadder eyes and scars that her guardians despised, for all it did was remind them that they were not enough, always, not enough. After years of sleepless nights laying on the roof, watching the stars twinkle, wishing to just forget, Takara will wake up, and on the good days, she will believe that she is good enough.

 

   
Takara turns twelve, with bruises like ugly smudges of purple and muddy green that makes Mama cry everytime she sees them, splotching her ribs like the cruelest gift from god, andshe dreams of a girl who is a fighter in all ways that her failing body isn’t, of a messiah whose steps parted oceans and touch that healed the ailing. She thinks of warm hands, a warmer smile, lazy mornings in the sun, with eyes that promise her the world. When she wakes, all Takara can feel is the weight of his hand on her back, knowing that he will catch her if she falls. Somehow, when Lilith’s gaze burns like flickering embers, her golden eyes slitted and sharp in the shadows, Takara doesn’t feel so alone.

 

She doesn’t think about how all her dreams always end up with him walking away, of how her heart always ends up in pieces, for that sort of heartache is reserved for the silence of dawn, where the sun rises like it was always meant to be with the sky.

 

When she meets Ryohei, her darling Sun, there are no words to describe the lump in her throat, and Takara tells no one of the sudden blur in her vision, a man with an all-too-sharp, an all-too-familiar smirk curving his face, a man whose presence makes her feel two inches tall and suddenly, inadequate, overlapping with Ryohei’s.

 

Over Ryohei’s shoulders, Lilith’s eyes are sharp, like they know anyways.

 

 

When Takara is thirteen, she dreams of an empress, and her hair is the sepia of the land she rules, but she is only one, and her ravenous cousin yearns to ascend the throne, if only to run her kingdom into war, fill their rivers with the blood of their people.

 

She dreams of a girl made to grow up too early, too alone, and fear is the cloak she wears until she meets him. Her advisor whose hands were tarnished in the name of his queen.

 

When Takara wakes, a trembling sob breaking from her lips, it is not the curve of his smile that she remembers, but rather, it is of the apathetic light in his eyes when her cousin slits her throat, and blood, the colour that her cousin carries so proudly in his eyes, the echoes of their heritage sing in her heart like a wardrum.

 

Takara wonders if his eyes will flicker when she tells him that their babe dies with her. She does not get to see, for death has already dug its unforgiving claws in.

 

The breeze rustles the curtains on her window, and all that she is reminded of, is him waiting there, a language she doesn’t remember learning, rings clearer in her mind than Lilith’s instructions do.

 

“συγχώρεσέ με”

 

(They remain in her mind longer than Lilith’s words too)

 

(Takara does not want to know what they mean)

 

 

Now Takara is eighteen, on the cusp of womanhood, her hand in marriage yet still sheltered by her youth. She is Vongola Decimo, the tenth to rule the Vongola empire, the first to bring about change, to wash the blood and sin from her birthright. Its hard to imagine that she had championed the revolution for a future she wants for everyone who deserves better when she is trapped in this precarious situation, begging for mercy.

 

“Lilith, please,” Takara says, fear crawling up from the darkest pits of her heart to fester angrily beneath her skin. “You can’t do this, please-” Takara tries again, tears fogging her vision like how her unspoken emotions clog her throat. Between them, the briny air is stilted, as if the world was holding its breath, Takara feels like she is free-falling, clawing desperately for the assurance that she would never have to meet him again.

 

(Not in this lifetime, the wind mocks, but Takara does not listen)

 

“Do you know how painful it is to encounter your soulmate, and have them walk away from you every single lifetime?” Takara whispers, the last of her words dissolving into a broken sob, disgusted at herself, at how easy it was to finally let it off her chest, after years of harbouring those emotions, at how easily it falls off her lips, at how Lilith’s face barely even twitches at her pained admission

 

“What is the use of snatched snippets of joy, when they make his back the last thing I see even the more painful?” Takara says raggedly, like it physically pains her to admit that every sleepless night spent in silence underneath the starry night had been of her tears, of her worth, stealing away from her, every single thought dissecting her self-worth turning into an endless loop of not good, not enough. 

 

“Takara.” Lilith says, softly and tenderly, so unlike her brutal, straightforward way of getting to the point that Takara drags a desperate lungful of air, trying for some composure as she turned to face her tutor.

 

(Her friend, Takara would come to realise, like Lilith has always been silently calling, and slowly, bit by bit, Takara had been answering.)

 

“This is your last trial as my student, Takara,” Lilith says quietly, and their figures must cut a striking, if not contrasting one against the ethereal moonlight of Okinawa’s beaches, Takara in a white sundress, and Lilith in her form-fitting black dress, the frothy waves lapping gently at their ankles. One would never tell that they both concealed weapons within easy reach, a lesson that an assassin had learnt painfully.

 

Solemnity hugs the elegant lines of Lilith’s figure, and like a goddess, she is bathed in the light of the waning moon above them. But for some reason, Takara finds herself thinking the proud set of Lilith’s shoulders lonely.

 

Takara and Lilith, student and teacher, stand across each other, Lilith with her face too cold, too smooth and Takara, with her bleeding heart, always feeling, always living.

 

There is innocence, and Lilith sees it in the arch of Takara’s back, the lilt in her laugh, the generous curve to her lips, but she has drawn out the poison that will protect her student, much like the belladonna that Takara favors, Lilith has made sure that the Takara will be just as, if not more than beautiful as she is deadly.

 

Lilith has done everything there was to do, but there was something she had never been able to fix no matter how much she had tried.

 

(Takara just didn’t see how much her guardians treasured her, despite whatever they did)

 

(Lilith, no matter how much she understood why, hated him for doing that to Takara)

 

Takara stares at her with her desperation of a drowning man, all that her innate pride, one that Lilith had reckoned was akin to Nana’s, silently regal, ancient from weathering through storms, will allow. Lilith wavers slightly, filled with the resigned acknowledgement that Takara will hate her, however briefly it would be, for this. But she stands firm in her decision because Lilith knows that after this, with unshakeable security, Takara will face the darkest that the Underworld has to offer and come out laughing, and people would scramble to make way for their queen, as most who have encountered her already have.

 

All she has to do is to see that she was worth something.

 

They are different, as the sun and moon often were, and Takara and her hair like the sun, milky skin flushed with warmth and lips like the first bloom of spring, is life, if life could laugh and speak and love. Lilith, swathed in darkness, a smear of deep wine red on her lips against the lily white of her skin, a shade too cold to pass for a human’s, was death, and as death did, it just took and took.

 

They stood opposite each other, never one, but Lilith knew that wherever Takara went, she would gladly follow.

 

Afterall, for lifetimes before this one, she had done the same.  

 

(tell me the story, of how the moon loved the sun so much, she died every night to let her breath)

 

(but you already know that story)

 

(sing our song louder so i will never forget)


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting your soulmate is a blessing, they say, but if your soulmate leaves you every single lifetime, that is agony. To remember your soulmate is a privilege, but can you really call it a blessing if your last memory is of his retreating back? Sawada Takara is just a girl, but when she dreams, it's of her past lives, always intertwined with heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can check out my website where I post outtakes and other works on: effervescentlight.wordpress.com, Quotev at Raineblack, and rainieblack on fanfiction.net 
> 
> Please do tell me what you think in the comments!

“I would try to create a construct of him, an illusion for her, but Takara is impervious to my illusions now,” Mukuro says, idly swirling his wine glass. Lilith lounged opposite him on the sofa, is stretched out, her legs draped over the armrest of the sofa, and she hums in muted pride. Her hair, inky black, spills over the other armrest, and for a split second, a ludicrous, breathless moment, he is certain that the shadows reach out and play with the curling strands of her hair. He blinks, and the faint, ephemeral image is gone, but Mukuro still wonders, what are you?

If Mukuro hadn’t seen the proof of Lilith’s blazing storm flames, painfully pure and hungry in its intensity, as loyal to Takara as the foolish Gokudera is, he would have thought her to be an illusionist. It wasn’t the first time he, or any of the Guardians have doubted that she truly did not wield a dual flame with how often he has caught fleeting flickers in the space around her, the air distorted as if reality has ripped a jagged hole just for Lilith to pass through. Shadows worked differently for Lilith, bending around her like a lover would, as did sound.

“She is now, but she wasn’t always.” Lilith says in return, feathery lashes brushing against the gentle slope of her cheekbone. Her voice has gone low and contemplative, a sign that she has slipped into a meditative state. The last time he saw it, Takara was risking her life for the cursed Arcobaleno, most of which hadn’t even bothered to spare a more than a flippant thanks to his Decimo. That voice is savage, ruthless, and hungers for blood. It sends shivers down his spine.

“Yes,” Mukuro returns dryly, taking a small, appreciative sip of his wine before continuing, “you’ve trained her well.”

Lilith’s eyes flutter open, sharp gold irises, weren’t they always purple? focused intently on the patterns drawn into the ceiling. Mukuro faintly remembers Chrome stumbling upon the two, her memories folding into his like the remembrance of an old song, Takara and Lilith, painting the ceiling full of constellations. Lilith and her too-old eyes lock with Chrome’s and at that moment, an indescribable feeling wells in his Nagi’s, chest, but he pushes that memory from his mind as soon as he catches a glimpse of her eyes, striking eyes so similar to his Sky’s own, hazing over in thought.

“She’s prepared now, to face him.” Lilith murmurs, diverting the topic to what they were previously discussing with ease, and her piercing eyes slide over to meet his half-lidded eyes.

A lesser man would falter at the fear-inducing gaze of the unflappable woman, but Mukuro has seen the same infallible woman break down when Takara’s cavort with death turned from shy gazes shared across the ballroom to an intimate tango across the floor, and it doesn’t work as well as she might have liked for it to be.

“For Takara, what would you do?” Mukuro asks quietly, for though he already knows the answer, he and all the others do, as his Sky’s guardian, he needs to hear her promise.

Without missing a beat, Lilith responds with the exact same thing she has told Iemitsu all those years ago,

(what she has promised all of them for every single lifetime)

“For Takara, anything.”

________________________________________

Lilith stands in the shadows of the pillars, content with watching over her student, as she had all those years ago. Her inky hair, too pale skin and violet eyes always too old and tired for her age chase everyone away like they have always, always, have.

She has always shouldered the responsibility of her Sky’s safety, most often than not, she has done it alone. Now, in this lifetime, Takara’s guardians accompany her.   
Kyoya, the ever distant, ever aloof Cloud, lurks amongst the perimeters of the building with his Disciplinary Committee. He is as vigilant as ever, and though he is far enough from the ballroom to ignore the crowds, he is near enough to keep an eye on his Sky.

Ryohei, silent, stands uncharacteristically still behind her, his body coiled with loose awareness, primed for a burst of instantaneous movement. His neatly pressed suit is ever at odds with the tape that winds proudly around his calloused knuckles, a token from his childhood. His eyes are sharp and flinty, and they linger on those who leer perversely at Takara with a dangerous light.

Perched on the highest railings, his sharp, verdant eyes flitting from one guest to the other, Hayato’s lit cigarette dangles roguishly from his lips, and he casually huffs out an occasional puff of smoke, even as he idly juggles the explosives held carelessly in his hands. He too has his gaze lingering on those who sought Takara’s downfall with disparaging acidity, only Hayato’s is considerably more calculative. This was a Storm who would do more than just destroy those who stood against his Sky. This was a Storm who would drag out their deaths, make them hurt and beg for mercy. This was a Storm who put the fear of God, the fear of loyalty to those who stood against his Sky.

Mukuro, draped in one of his illusions, hangs off Dino’s arm, his features eerily similar to Takara’s, from the slant of his eyes to the delicate line of his neck. They are everything Lilith knows stares back at her in the mirror, all hinting at who he has modelled his illusion after. The resemblance is not so similar to cause any suspicion, however, and Lilith has taught him well enough to know that his presence goes unnoticed by the Dons’, Donnas’, hitmen and the like, who are casually milling about, some of them accompanied with their guardians. All of which, Likith notes, warmth blossoming in her chest, possess flames that are nothing but embers compared to the blazing beacons that were the Vongola’s Tenth Generation.

Yamamoto is the only one who isn’t in the shadows, and he trails Takara’s every step. His smile is kind and sharp, tempered with a deadly edge, and it promises the threats that he would gladly carry out if they stepped too close.

All of them make up a picture-perfect image of faithful guardians. They’ve grown, so much. If Lilith left now, Takara would be able to take care of herself and those she loved. Her job should have been done two years ago, the moment Takara bested her, but she had stayed. She wanted to stay. Lilith didn’t want to see Takara survive, she wanted to see her live. Truly, happily, with no regrets. 

She knew that he would not be attending today, but soon, the time would come. Lilith would enjoy seeing him grovel of Takara’s forgiveness, but for now, she backed deeper into the shadow of a pillar and watched.


End file.
